Mercenary Games
by Cszemis
Summary: After being injured on a mission, the Mole finds it hard to accept some of the aspects of his best friend and Gregory simply cannot understand why Christophe seems to hate him.


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Title: Mercenary Games 

Author: Cszemis

Rating: T

Summary: After being injured on a mission, the Mole finds it hard to accept some of the aspects of his best friend and Gregory simply cannot understand why Christophe seems to hate him. Hints of slash

So dudes… this is a kinda heavy piece. It's short but still a little intense. You don't need to agree with either boy or their views and you don't even have to like this story. But I thought this would be an argument that our Revolutionaries would end up having anyway. They are both about seventeen and Gregory still pays for the Mole's services. Yes this means messed up continuity but come on, it's a story from a programme with singing poo. I think you can forgive me. This was partly inspired by Dark Penguin's picture Mercinary Luuv.

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He stubbed out his cigarette with his steel toed boot and regarded the house with bitter contempt. 

Curling his lip and swinging his shovel from its position against his shoulder he dug deliberately and ruthlessly down into the immaculate garden, ruining the manicured lawn and disturbing the plant pots.

For several minutes he dug straight down into the earth, and he quickly disappeared under the ground. For any other human being it might have taken at least an hour to vanish from sight but he worked quickly and effortlessly, a blur of shovel and mud.

A blur he might have been, but he was still seen by a certain member of the household, a small smirk twitching the corner of his lips as he gazed down at his best friend and comrade ruining his garden.

Gregory pressed his fingertips against the cold glass and drank greedily the sight, feeling strangely exhilarated that the Mole would be so wonderfully furious at him. He could already hear Christophe's nasally voice bitching at him about his latest assignment, and he began to think of the best way to reply.

Christophe had every right to be furious, and the proof of it stung every time he struck down through the fragile earth. The bullet he had so narrowly dodged had scraped right through the top layer of skin on his shoulder, and even now fragments of dirt seeped in with the blood and sweat as he began to tunnel under the home of Gregory Thorne.

The Mole grunted and cursed as he made his way through the foundations of the house, nearly breaking his shovel in the process. Only metres above him, Gregory balled his fists with excitement and paced around the room, anxiously waiting to hear about the Mole's latest mission.

Deciding not to ruin his composure or the Mole's opinion of him, Gregory slipped into an armchair, gripping the arm rests a little and smirking in the direction of the floor. He did not jump when he began to hear the sound of a shovel hitting against the hardwood floors. He merely smiled more, relaxing his body as the shovel hit again and again.

The wood began to splinter under the Mole's might, and one floorboard came loose entirely, knocked sideways uselessly as the Frenchman forced his way in the house. The hole in the floor got bigger and bigger as Christophe began tearing away at the planks of wood, using his own strength to break apart the boundary between himself and Gregory. And when the hole was big enough, he threw his shovel into the room, the shovel clattering against the hardwood floors.

Gregory ran a hand through his hair just before the Mole's head appeared, the seemingly disembodied head glaring around the room to seek his best friend.

"I have a front door you know," Greg said with a knowing smile.

The Mole grunted, and with his muscles pumping he pulled himself out of the tunnel and into the sitting room. He was covered in dirt and sweat, his hair sticking up in different directions while his face shone with a strange sort of exhilaration.

But when he heard Gregory speak, his only response was to light a cigarette.

Gregory spent a few moments just staring at his best friend in silence, admiring the muscles bulging slightly under his black tank top.

"Was there a lot of security?" he asked pleasantly.

"Oui," the Mole replied, taking a drag of the cigarette, dropping the match he used to light the end and stubbing it out with his boat.

"How many people?" Gregory pressed him again, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"'Ard to tell," the Mole sniffed. "Ze fat kid was zere."

"Did you fight with him?" Gregory leaned forward and beckoned Christophe to come closer.

He was taken aback for a moment when all of the Mole seemed to sag, and his shoulders slumped. Christophe shook his head and for a moment he seemed almost fragile, looking thoroughly exhausted and heavy.

"'E… 'E called security on me," the Mole whispered.

It was at that moment that Gregory noticed the blood trickling down Christophe's arm, a small, ugly scar torn into his flesh. His breath caught in his throat as a wave of sympathy hit him.

"Come here," Gregory commanded, once again beckoning the Mole to him.

Christophe glared, "I am not your fucking dog, beetch."

"I need to look at your wound," Gregory warned him against disobedience, "Come here."

The Mole grunted again and moved towards the armchair, getting onto his knees at Gregory's feet. The blonde young man leaned forward to inspect the wound and to his satisfaction it was not as bad as he feared. The cut was not deep, the bullet had scraped him just barely, but it had been the digging and the dirt that had further damaged the skin.

Gregory stood up for a moment to get some bandages and some anti-bacterial wipes, leaving the disgruntled Mole kneeling beside the armchair. He returned, and sliding back into his seat, he carefully began to tend to the wound, cleaning out the dirt with a gentle hand. He could feel Christophe wince even though the Frenchman's expression never changed, stubbornly trying to ignore the sting.

But when Gregory moved to bandage around Christophe's upper arm he was swatted away with exasperation. The Mole did not like the thought of wearing bandages for all the world to see; it would make him seem weak. Ignoring the wishes of his best friend, Christophe tore at a section of his top, ripping it across the bottom. He heard Gregory chuckle as he took the material and tried unsuccessfully to tie it around his own upper arm.

Without conceding defeat, Gregory wordlessly took both ends of the material and tied it tightly around the wound. It would probably still get infected without the sterile bandages, but he could hardly force the Mole to see that. Christophe enjoyed pain in a strange masochistic sort of way, and he would hardly be concerned about a small infection.

Gregory smiled to himself and ran his thumb up and down Christophe's skin; it was filthy and slightly rough but alluring as hell. The flesh of a fighter. Christophe raised an eyebrow and coughed.

"Stop zinking wiz your dick, you blonde beetch," he tried to shrug Greg's arm off but the young man kept his hold, slipping a hand under the material of his shirt to stroke the softer skin underneath.

"I mean eet! Touch me again beetch and I'll shove my shovel up your ass!"

"Don't get so defensive, mon ami," Gregory smirked and let go; he did not particularly want a shovel up his ass but he didn't entirely rule anything else out.

"Am I just a piece of meat to you?" Christophe glared, "Just a big lump of pig flesh slaughtered and 'ung up on an 'ook?"

"Of course not," he laughed, "but I can appreciate a fine bit of ass when I see it."

The Mole fidgeted, "You keep zings away from my ass… I mean eet… my shovel will be coming out of your mouth."

Gregory winced, "Once again, your use of the English language is entirely below par."

"Cock fag."

"Exactly my point."

Christophe snorted, "Why do you care so much? Eet's not like you care about me, beetch."

"I do care," Gregory tried to mess his hair playfully, "you just think everyone is out to get you."

Christophe looked from side to side and sucked at the cigarette, "But zey are."

"No," Greg laughed, "I think it's just Cartman out to get you. He hates the French."

Christophe tightened his grip on his shovel at the thought of that fat asshole and imagined hitting him very hard over the head. Unbeknownst to him, Gregory was thinking along the same lines but was expecting the shovel to merely bounce off of the many layers of flab that was Eric Cartman.

"You need to make sure he doesn't get you," Greg slid down in the armchair a bit and massaged just above the wound softly.

"You're not going to look for my safety?" something in Christophe's eyes twinkled.

"Do I need to?"

Christophe took a long drag of his cigarette and snorted, blowing smoke through his nose, "Fucking typical."

"I beg your pardon?" Gregory looked down at him quizzically.

The Mole snorted again and shook his head, "I forgot you don't care about ze foot soldiers."

"What on earth are you talking about, Mole?" Gregory raised an eyebrow in response.

"I 'ave a fucking name, beetch, use eet," the Frenchman glared.

"Well then, _Christophe_, tell me why I don't care about soldiers."

"Because you're ze leader," the Mole's nostrils flared.

"That's not a bad thing!" the blonde man protested.

Mole blew smoke up into Gregory's face, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

"_If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath_," Mole recited from memory, sarcasm dripping through his voice, "_I'd live wiz scarlet Majors at ze Base and speed glum 'eroes up ze line to death._ "

Gregory frowned at his companion and opened his mouth to protest but Mole's recitation continued.

"_You'd see me wiz my puffy, petulant face, guzzling and gulping in the best 'otel, reading ze Roll of 'Onour! 'Poor young chap," I'd say -- "I used to know 'is fazzer well; yes, we've lost 'eavily in zis last scrap_.'

"Not all leaders are like that!" Gregory frowned and coughed in Mole's smoke.

"_And when ze war ees done and youth stone dead_," Christophe looked right into Gregory's eyes with a strange distaste, "_I'd toddle safely 'ome and die -- in bed_."

Greg sighed and stroked along Christophe's shoulder, picking idly at couple of bits of dirt and lint that decorated the Mole's shabby appearance. Christophe stiffened under his touch and pulled the cigarette from his mouth, resting his smoking hand on his knee.

The fair haired young man tried to smile at his friend but there was a horrible churning in his stomach.

"You know that I am not one of those people," Gregory whispered, gazing into the Mole's arrogantly rebellious face, "I care about people. I do care."

"Only because eet ees bad press," Mole snorted harshly and brought the cigarette back up to his mouth, inhaling deeply all the toxins and tar.

"And besides, if you really wanted to make a point," Gregory smiled the politician's smile, knowing that its appearance would really piss off the Frenchman, "then you recited the wrong war poem."

"Oui?" Christophe raised his eyebrows bemused, "what did you 'ave in mind?"

Gregory slouched down a little in his seat but his voice was still clear and loud.

"_If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in, and watch the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin, if you could hear, at every jolt, the blood come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs bitter as the cud, of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, - My friend, you would not tell with such high zest…."_

"_To children ardent for some desperate glory_," Christophe whispered along with the recitation and they finished together.

"_The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."_

Mole snorted and took another drag of his cigarette, "Eet makes no sense. Eet ees neither 'onourable nor good to fight for one's native land. Countries change zeir borders all ze time. Just because I am French today does not mean I might not be Spanish tomorrow."

"But you can't do a Spanish accent, mon ami," Gregory chuckled at the very idea of Christophe playing with maracas.

"Eet would not matter if I could. Ze world as I knew it would be Spanish and all my culture and all my 'istory means nozing. Just like life means nozing, and God especially means nozing; ze world changes to suit eetself."

"So if you don't fight for country or for freedom," Gregory questioned, intrigued by the Mole's reasoning, "then why do you fight? Why do you even exist?"

"Ask God," Mole replied glumly and gauged how much longer he could smoke the cigarette without burning his fingers.

"I don't need to," Gregory squeezed Christophe's shoulder and gazed down at the mercenary, "I know why you fight."

"Oui?" Mole blow smoke up at him.

"You fight because you want to."

Christophe's expression hardened and his eyes flashed with anger.

"I don't want to be shot at!"

"Then why do you do it, Delorean?" Gregory spoke slowly and calmly, refusing to be bait to the Mole's anger. "You came to me for work and you were happy to do it."

"I needed money."

"Oh no, no, no," Gregory chuckled and shook his free finger in his face like the Mole was nothing more than a disobedient pup, "I remember your very words; 'Time to get some excitement and exercise, mon ami'."

"Some exercise, oui, I agree wiz you on zat but not guard dogs or bullets. I fucking 'ate guard dogs!"

"I told you it would be dangerous," Gregory smirked, "and you said you could handle it."

"I could 'andle eet!" Christophe's eyes flashed with anger again, furious that his capabilities had been called into question.

"Then why are you bitching?" he chuckled, "it's tiresome."

"You made me get shot!" The Mole stood up, burning with rage and grasping his shovel tightly in one hand.

Gregory blinked and for a moment his muscles tightened, unsure if he should jump out of the way in case the Mole decided the bring the shovel down hard on his head.

"Did I really?" Gregory tried to retain his composure in front of his friend, "Did I pull that trigger? Was it I that set off the alarms?"

"Non, but if eet wasn't for you, I would 'ave not been zere!"

"So that is your only argument?" Gregory pressed his fingers together in front of his chin in mediation.

"I could 'ave been killed," the Mole fumed.

"You chose to go, so why should I be concerned about your safety?"

"Zat was my point!" Christophe cried, "You do not care about me. Leaders do not care when zeir soldiers die. As long as zey complete ze mission, why does eet matter?"

Gregory Thorne thrust himself to his feet and threw open his arms, "Then shoot me if I'm to blame for your pain."

"Non. But I'll knock your'ead off wis my shovel, beetch!" Mole lifted it up high, both his hands tightly clasping the long handle.

Gregory took two steps forward and tried to grab the shovel off of the young Frenchman, "Why does your lot try to sort things out by beheading people?"

"Why does your lot let ze suffering go on? You're supposed to be ze thinker! You're supposed to know all ze facts and direct ze sheep. Eet's your fault zat people suffer."

"The soldiers can always say no!" Gregory cried out and tried to yank the handle out of Christophe's hands.

"Non. Zey 'ave no choice. Zey follow orders."

"But you could have said no to me!" Gregory struggled with him, "I didn't force you to go!"

The Mole with his inhuman strength pulled the shovel out of Gregory's struggling grip and swung it away from his outreaching fingers, "Zis ees ze second time you 'ave nearly gotten me killed."

"Ha!" Greg frowned and looked warily at the Mole's weapon. "It's the first time. You died before. And you said you preferred hell."

"I did because you weren't zere!" the Mole found himself regretting his words even as he spoke them. Gregory's face twitched for a moment with pain, and Christophe lowered his shovel when he saw the sadness in his eyes.

The blonde young man sighed mournfully and with a long gaze at his friend, he settled back into his armchair, feeling terribly heavy and pained.

"You…" Gregory took a moment to process the Mole's words, "You liked that I wasn't there?"

"Eet was certainly peaceful. Zere was no one 'iring my life and spouting inane crap at me."

"Inane?" Greg frowned, "It's not inane."

"Your philosophy on good and evil ees jaded, stupid American beetch," the Mole muttered.

Gregory frowned, "That is just your opinion. So who is evil then, you or I? Who is good? Why are we here in the first place? All these questions and others have polluted our minds and journals since the dawn of time. And because we don't know the answers we fight and struggle with each other to find them."

The Mole glared hatefully at Gregory as he found himself agreeing with that statement.

"And don't you tell me that your injury is my doing! I did not mean, nor want, you to be shot at."

"Eet fucking 'urt! You trying being shot, stabbed, beaten or 'alf eaten by guard dogs and see 'ow much philosophy you 'ave, you filthy piece of sheet!" the Mole snarled.

Gregory stared deep into Christophe's eyes, wild and animalistic, and he spoke softly.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" the Mole stared at him in disbelief.

"Oui, mon ami," Gregory reached out to touch his shoulder in an expression of camaraderie, "tu est fatigue?"

In a surprising move on Christophe's part, the Frenchman nodded, but his eyes were still suspicious, "Oui. Je suis tres fatigue."

Gregory stepped forwards and gently pried the shovel out of Christophe's rough and dirty hands. He rubbed up and down his good arm and half embraced the bitter and physically exhausted young man. He regarded his best friend with a wise but not entirely worldly eye and felt a wave of sympathy envelop him.

The Mole was filthy, physically, emotionally and spiritually. He had been tainted by everything he had seen and did and everything he had yet to do. He sold his services to the highest bidder and life would throw everything it had at him in retaliation. Christophe might weep for his experiences one day and curse them the next, always looking for that next thrill. That next big job. He was not as intelligent as Gregory; his focus was physical, not mental and his only sense of accomplishment would come through fighting each and every day.

Gregory could only hope to send him on missions that would test his limits but never place him in any real danger. Such as the mission today, which he still had no idea how successfully it had been pulled off.

"So where is it?" Gregory's face brightened hopefully.

The Mole grunted and shook his head in disbelief. He disappeared back into the tunnel and Gregory could hear him muttering to himself.

"Hey, I did warn you that Wal-Mart wouldn't like you tunneling through the floors," Gregory shook his head," so you can stop your bitching."

Christophe clambered back out of the hole and tossed a box onto Gregory's lap with disgust. The blonde boy's face broke into the widest smile as he beheld the gaming system before him.

"Next time, go get your own new Nintendo Wii," Christophe snapped and went off to play World of Warcraft on the computer.

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Much love and thanks for Shuggie who helped change all of the Mole's dialogue. You're amazing sweetie. The poems in this piece are Base Details by Siegfried Sassoon and Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen. Both poets lived and participated in WW1 and their poems always resonated with me. 


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